Arguably The Best Year of His Life
by twowritehands
Summary: At first it was fantastic. Then it wasn't. Then, maybe, it was... Read to learn why the year Spencer spent with the meatball is such a grey area.


**Disclaimer:** _if you look on the bottom of Spencer Shay's left foot, you'll see_ Dan Schiender _in neat crayon. That goes for the magic meatball too... if it had a foot :)_

_Author's Note: This is a bizarre _What If _that wouldn't go away. Written to be either secret canon, or A/U, your choice :)_

**Arguably the Best Year of His Life**

Spencer could smell something bad coming out of his closet. This happened occasionally, and it was always a good sign. It meant the search for whatever food—this time an egg-sandwich—that he'd misplaced was over. Clearing his schedule, he devoted his morning to cleaning out the dark corner of his bedroom.

Carly's laundry load would be twice as big tonight, since he had to rewash the rumpled and reeking clothes he unearthed. He tossed everything into the hamper and kicked the layer of junk around until he found the molding bread. It was green and interesting looking, and for a minute, Spencer was tempted to see what it tasted like, but all the hard lessons he'd learned in this matter came back to him then, and he dropped the rotten lunch into his trashcan without satisfying his natural curiosity.

There was a lot of cool stuff in his closet that he'd forgotten. He found a pair of old boxing gloves that he'd only used once, when he was like twelve, before he knew that kick-boxing actually entailed getting kicked in the face by other boys and even some beefy girls. He scooped them up and knocked them together, testing their durability. They were good as new, and would be perfect for Gib, he liked that kind of thing. Spencer tossed them onto his bed to give to the little guy later.

Next he found a meatball. Not a real one. A Spanish one. Excitement electrified his veins—he was suddenly a child at Christmas, couldn't wait to see if the thing still worked. He didn't expect it to, it was like fifteen years old, but he shook it anyway.

"_Si_," it croaked in its little Spanish voice. All of the breath in Spencer's body stilled, as if the air-circulation system died. He just stopped breathing, and remembered...

**Year 13**

The light from the hall fell in a bright rectangle onto the bed, pulling the fast asleep and fast growing boy there awake. He opened bleary brown eyes and lifted his head. His short-cropped brown hair had three cowlicks going in three directions and his neck was long, making him look like a cartoon turtle with his giant blue comforter as his shell.

Into his room bounded a tall woman with more limbs than torso, the same long neck, and paint-splattered overalls hanging from her thin frame.

"Wake up, Spence!" she cried, dropping her weight onto the side of the bed. Her brown hair was tumbling in frizzy curls from a sloppy up do held in place by a chopstick.

"Wha? Why?" A look at the window said that the sky over Japan was not even glowing with the first hints of sunlight yet.

"We're going on a trip."

Spencer sat up and turned on his bedside lamp. The light washed over a floor littered with cloths, remote controlled cars and soda bottles.

"Where?" he asked.

His mother brought her shoulders up to her ears, frowning. "Well, where do you want to go?"

With his mouth hanging open and one corner of his mouth hiked up in a smile—he wasn't sure if this was a practical joke or not—he looked to the bedroom door. His father had appeared there.

Colonel Shay was not a silly man but he smiled all the time while at home. He was smiling now, though not as determinedly as his wife. If Spencer knew any better, he would think his father's smile looked a little sad.

"What's going on?"

His mother stood, clasping her hands in front of her and pivoting beautifully on the ball of one foot, the toes of her lifted foot pointing like a true dancer.

"Weeeeellll," she sang as she spun, "Steve and I have been talking and we need a vacation—we just need an _effing_ vacation. Right, Steve?"

"You're always right, Deb," Steve said from the doorway.

Deb turned back to their son, eyes wide with excitement, "So we're doing it. And because you are our son and we love you, we will go _anywhere_ you want. The only rules are no more military bases and _definitely_ no more schools."

Spencer double looked his mother, now both sides of his mouth were up with his jaw down. "No school?" he asked, "For how long?"

"_Three months_," Deb said and Spencer's reaction was exactly as she hoped it would be; he sprang straight to his feet on the bed. His socks were half off, flopping like rabbit ears from the ends of his feet. His boxers had Galaxy Wars characters all over them and his t-shirt was too big and falling off one bony shoulder.

Deb stood, clapping and jumping, sharing his excitement and in the door, Steve was starting to smile a truly happy smile.

"Where do you want to go?"

"Anywhere?"

"Anywhere," both Deb and Steve said.

Spencer's thick eyebrows came low over his eyes and he offset his jaw as he cast his brown eyes around the room for inspiration. They landed on his magic meatball. He leapt off the bed and grabbed it, "Let's ask the magic meatball!"

"I love it!" Deb cried as Steve put his face in his hands.

"Magic Meatball," Spencer asked, "Should we go to Africa and see the Nile?" He shook the great brown hunk of plastic and an automated Spanish accent answered,

"_Si_."

Deb lit up and looked at her husband. He surrendered, nodded. Deb nodded. Spencer pumped one arm in triumph and jumped into the air.

"First stop, the Great Nile!" Deb cried.

The Egyptian sun was harsh and unforgiving, and the desert wind was blowing stinging grit into the back of his neck. The wide brimmed hat he wore made his head look even smaller than usual and his skin was covered in a thin layer of dirt. Deb stood looking out at the great pyramids and Steve took a string of pictures of Deb looking.

"Great Magic Meatball," Spencer said, holding the battery-powered toy in his hands like a mystical crystal ball, "Should we go on a Safari and see wild elephants?"

"_No_."

"Should we go hunt tigers?"

"_No_."

Deb looked at her son smiling but shaking her head. The Shay family had yet to make a single decision without asking the meatball first. It led them on interesting routes and caused them to meet interesting people. Steve spoke up, "No where hot, _please_—Hey Meatball, should we go to Paris?"

"_Si_."

Steve smiled ear to ear and Deb bumped her nose with his, "Eiffel tower it is."

Paris was a glowing pearl below them, the night winds of France wiped around Spencer and over the edge.

"Do. Not. Fall." Deb ordered in her serious tone. She was talking as much to her husband as to her son—both of them were hanging over the edge looking down.

"Magic Meatball, should mom come look over the edge?"

"_No_," the meatball said in sync with Deb. Steve and Spencer roared with laughter.

"Gemme," Steve said, taking the meatball. Spencer was smiling with one side of his mouth again as they watched the usual wet blanket playing enthusiastically with a toy. He shook it as he asked—in the appropriate accent, no less, "Should we go to Greece?"

"_Si_."

Africa, France, Greece, never doing a single thing without the meatball's permission, three months flew by in a blur of laughter, breath-taking sights, uncomfortable situations, one or two scary moments, and plenty of good times.

Anything Spencer wanted his parents let him buy. He was having too good a time to realize how odd this was, or to notice the sad look his father often got while watching his wife soak in the beauty of something. Deb's was a spirit too ready to have fun to let things like dizziness or the occasional nausea slow them down, and she did a very good job at hiding it from her son.

Which was why he was so surprised when they finally told him.

"What next?" Spencer asked after a shower. They were in a hotel in New York City, had spent the evening watching a show on Broadway.

Deb was sitting on the bed. Steve was beside her. They were holding hands. Deb looked sad as she smiled at her son.

"Home," she said.

Spencer plucked up the meatball and Steve said, "We're not asking it this time, buddy."

"Why not?"

"This was our last trip," Deb said, "Vacation's over. It's been three months, time to go home."

Spencer's frail shoulders slumped, "Splatter," he mumbled.

"Watch your mouth," Steve said.

"Back to Tokyo, then," the boy said, tossing the meatball back onto his bed.

"No, not Japan." Deb said, "_Home_, as in Washington, as in Yakama to see Grandmom and Granddad."

"Oh," Spencer frowned, eyebrows low, "Why not back to the base—doesn't Dad have to work?"

Steve took a deep breath, cleared his throat and answered, "I've got some time off."

"Why don't we keep going, then?" Spencer asked.

"Because you're mother needs medicine and treatment," Steve said. His father's serious tones usually missed on the boy, but that one landed.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Tears were shinning in Deb's eyes, "I have cancer, Spence."

Granddad made it clear fast enough that he thought it was ridiculous to gallivant off around the world for three months instead of getting immediate treatment. Steve made it clear fast enough that he would ask for his father's opinion when he wanted it.

As the two generations of Shay butted heads, Grandmom kept the peace and Deb spent a lot of time viciously throwing paint onto the walls with loud music blaring. Spencer helped sometimes, but sometimes she just wanted to be alone.

Granddad signed Spencer up for eighth grade at the same school he went to when he was thirteen. Deb started Chemo around the same time that Spencer started school.

She was weak and dizzy and sick all the time and she shaved her head. She stopped dancing; she stopped singing under her breath and laughing so loud that she disturbed the neighbors. She stopped painting.

She stopped painting.

Spencer hated his teacher—a blotchy faced, fat and boring man. He hated his classmates, all of them talking about video games and girls or boy bands and boys.

Like any of it mattered.

Every one thought he was interesting, having been born in Germany, lived for a while in Britain and then Japan. He didn't feel like answering their questions, though. At home, he didn't feel like figuring out word problems when mom needed someone to talk to in order to get her mind off the pain.

With no homework, his math teacher—a straight backed and owl-like woman—lectured him in front of the whole class. He lost sleep at night, slept through morning classes. Those teachers lectured him, too. Kids always laughed when teachers singled out and lectured one student.

He asked the meatball and stopped going to that stupid school. Steve never noticed, too busy arguing with Granddad and helping Grandmom with Deb.

In the dusty, cram-packed attic, he found a fantastic faded leather jacket, perfect for when it started getting cold. With the slightly too-big leather jacket zipped up and his hands in his jeans pockets, the lanky boy walked around town all day.

More often than not, tears were cold on his face in the wind. The doctors gave her a year—and that was three months ago. She had no hair, she was pale, great big bruises showed up easily—too easily. She was sick all the time. She cried a lot. She sat in the dark with music playing so loudly that the neighbors complained more than once.

Spencer was never allowed to go to the doctor with her—Granddad and Grandmom put their foot down about it. He always heard the news anyway, over hearing when they told Grandmom. "It doesn't look good," Steve said thickly.

It doesn't look good.

She was going through hell with hope that it might fix her and it didn't look good.

The tears stopped and anger started burning in Spencer's gut. He punched through the window of an old church once, slicing his knuckle pretty badly.

It was spitting snow and Deb had just finished her third round of Chemo on the day he found a knot of high school students hanging out in the woods at the park. There where five of them and they had a go-cart. The oldest, a boy in a letterman jacket without a letter on it, asked past a cigarette,

"Who are you?"

"Spence,"

"Why aren't you in school?"

"Why aren't you?"

The high-schoolers looked him up and down. He was growing right in front of them. His converse sneakers were mud splattered, his jeans were covered in paint, his hair didn't look tamed at all and his leather jacket was just a little bit too big.

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen," he lied.

"You go to YHS?" A girl asked, "I haven't seen you around."

He shrugged.

Everyone smiled and invited him to hang with them. Tired of being alone with nothing but thoughts of his mother, he accepted the invitation gladly.

Their names were Troy, Laney, Dylan, and Kiki. Troy was the oldest, a repeat Junior. Kiki, a freshman, was the youngest. She giggled a lot and had numerous cool handshakes worked out with Laney, a sophomore.

"Wanna go to the skate park?" Dylan asked. Spencer pulled out the meatball. Troy frowned and plucked the cigarette from his lips, pointed with it, "What is that?"

"Magic Meatball," Spencer answered with a shrug. He was never in the mood to say more than he needed—they called him the strong silent type for it and Kiki said she liked it.

Spencer repeated Dylan's question to it. One shake later, the little Spanish voice said,

"_Si_."

"Do you do everything it tells you to do?" Laney asked, falling into step with him and looping an arm through his. Kiki was on the other side, holding his arm with both of hers.

He shrugged, "Makes things easier."

Kiki laughed, "Cool."

The meatball said alcohol was a bad idea, but it agreed to the cigarettes. They were kind of gross, but he felt older when he smoked them, and that was all he wanted anymore, to just be older; old enough to take this, old enough to move past it, because he could see that there was no stopping it.

No stopping it. Just living through it, and over the next month it hurt less when he was with his new friends doing something stupid. He knew the things Troy suggested were stupid, because he always heard Steve's voice say so in his head, but the only voice that mattered was the Meatball's.

Dad and Granddad didn't like the leather jacket, but they didn't say anything, except for once over a silent breakfast, the first Spencer was awake to join in a while. Steve watched his angry son slam things around trying to drown out the sound of Deb's shouts of agony as Grandmom helped her into the bathtub. The colonel opened his mouth once, closed it and then spoke as Spencer brushed past on his way out the door. "Nice jacket."

Spencer slammed the door on his father's biting sarcasm. He climbed onto the waiting school bus and curled up in a seat in the back without speaking to a single person. Deep down, he knew it was just Steve's pain talking—the Colonel's job description was to make weak men stronger, and that wasn't done with soft understanding words—but it still hurt to be on the receiving end. Spencer wasn't going to sit around the house and take whatever pain his father could shed with harsh words; he had enough of his own to deal with.

It was the meatball's idea to steal the boat.

The water was as black as the starless sky. Their only light was the massive red flashlight in Kiki's hand. He'd made his way to meet them at the lake in the dark, scared Kiki when he appeared without a noise in the beam of light. She was still laughing about that. She was a little drunk.

The others were there too. Dylan had brought the beer, and was the only one who believed Spencer and Troy when they thought they saw something half-beaver/half-raccoon in the bushes.

Spencer hadn't technically asked the meatball a question in over two weeks. The others took their turns, but it somehow always skipped him. Kiki had taken it from his hands and asked through a smile, "Time for a nighttime cruise?"

As the cute girl shook the magic meatball, he could hear what the Colonel would have to say if they got caught, but the lecture was drown out by the Mexican affirmative.

"_Si_,"

She kissed the meatball before tossing it back to him. "Good meatball," she said. Spencer laughed. She took his hand and pulled him onto the small craft tied at the end of the lake's dock. The others didn't want to get in; it was too cold to go out on the water.

Kiki called them party-poopers and got the boat to start.

Spencer had never driven a boat before but it always looked fun on TV. He eagerly took the wheel and punched the gas. The roar of the engine seemed too loud in the night, but when Kiki let out a yell, he couldn't help but join in. The night was too thick, there was nothing to guide the way. He just went full throttle and flew into the unknown.

The cold air pushed his hair up, and blew away his troubles, left him numb. By the time they reached the center of the lake, he was laughing and it felt good. He cut the wheel hard and Kiki screamed, and dropped her flashlight into the water, latching onto him to stay in the boat. He did it again and again until she cut the engine.

"Are you crazy?" she asked. The cold air settled and the quiet night returned with a few hesitant laps of water. The dead boat continued to spin lazily as Spencer chuckled and found the bench seat at the bow. His eyes were adjusted now but there was nothing to see, just black sky and blacker water.

She felt her way to him and sat against him, shivering but giggling. He didn't have to ask his meatball whether or not he should give her his jacket, it was just good manners. He shrugged it off and draped it around her shoulders.

"Thanks," she said softly.

"No problem," he whispered back. It felt wrong to disturb the peace. Out here, they couldn't even hear the trees in the wind. It was just them.

"I really like you, you know," she whispered suddenly.

"Thanks, I…I really like you, too, Kiki," he breathed. It was true, she was a lot of fun, reminded him of the fun he'd had before he found out about the cancer. It was so easy to talk in the dark like this that he didn't know what to say next.

"So…" she said after a long moment. "You really don't talk much, do you?"

He shrugged.

Her finger traced up his arm, leaving goosebumps that had nothing to do with the chill of the evening. "Will you talk to me?"

He found the meatball and shook it.

"_Si_,"

"Okay," he said. She laughed.

"Will you tell me about yourself?"

He shook the meatball again.

"_Si_,"

"The meatball says I have to... What do you want to know?"

"Why do you only do what the meatball tells you to?"

"It's just something we started doing last summer."

"Who?"

"Me and my parents."

"Your parents do it to?" she asked skeptically.

"Well…Not anymore."

"Why?"

He shrugged. He didn't even know where to begin.

"Okay…do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"Nope. Just me."

"Do you get along with your mom and dad?"

"Yeah…I used to anyway."

"What changed it?"

He didn't answer. Was there no conversation that didn't go back to this? She nudged him. He still wouldn't answer. She gave up. "I don't get along with mine either. They just don't get it. Sometimes I just….Sometimes they make me so mad, I just hate them, you know? Do you ever just hate your parents?"

"No," he said softly after a long pause.

She smirked. "Sure you do. Everybody hates their parents every now and then."

"I… can't."

"Why not?"

"I don't have time."

"What?"

He licked his lips. His breathing was shallow. It felt like his throat was closing. He'd never said this out loud before. "She's dying."

Kiki tensed. "What?"

"She has cancer," he said. He was crying now, and he couldn't keep the sound out of his voice. The darkness was no longer comforting or beautiful. He felt like he was lost and alone and drowning on a dry boat. For the sake of dignity, he tried to stop the tears but it was like a switch he couldn't turn back, a water balloon that couldn't be un-burst.

"Oh, God," she gasped softly. He could tell she was talking through her hand. "Spence…"

He tried to tell her he was okay, but the words wouldn't come out.

She moved closer and put her arms around him. She was so warm, and comfortable, and solid, and real… He couldn't remember the last time he'd been hugged. Everyone used to hug everyone in the beginning but at some point that had stopped….or maybe he had just stopped being there to get one. He suddenly didn't want a thing in the world but a nice big hug from someone, anyone, and here was one now. He squeezed her back tightly. It just felt so safe inside a hug.

He suddenly wasn't sure if he could let go of this amazing life raft he'd found. He knew he didn't want to.

Once he succumbed to the cry it was over in a blink, a rush of emotions that washed away like a dammed river breaking free. His body shook once with one free sob and then he was okay, or better at least. The fear and sadness and the anger was still there but it wasn't building pressure behind a façade anymore.

He cleaned his face, embarrassed. "Sorry," he said, sniffing.

Her hand caressed his face and then she kissed him. His heart started racing, and he didn't know what to think. He'd never kissed a girl before. He'd seen it on TV a bunch of times and that's all Troy and Laney seemed to do these days, so he knew what to do with his hands, and expected what she was doing with hers, but to actually experience it was another thing. It was kind of awesome, mind wiping in a way none of the other stupid stuff was, and the best part was this didn't even feel stupid. It felt kind of right. Good.

She stopped kissing him and her fingers brushed through his hair. "I'm so sorry, Spence."

"It's not fair," he said.

"It's not."

"Nothing's working. It's just making her sicker."

"Maybe it is working and you just can't tell."

"It's not. It's killing her."

"I'm so sorry…"

He didn't want to talk anymore. He kissed her to make it stop. It was just like driving the boat blindly at top speed. He had no idea what he was doing, he could crash any second, but that was what made it good. That kind of fear was a relief to the kind he felt when he thought about what was happening at home.

His new friends were older, the age he wished he was. Seventeen just sounded so grown up, and Troy and Dylan seemed so free to do what they wanted. Even fourteen and fifteen like Kiki and Laney sounded better. Maybe next year when he was fourteen this would all be over. Was it bad that he hoped it would be? Thoughts like this hurt. He hated himself. How could he wish his mom would die?

He was pretending with all of his imagination that he was sixteen. Sixteen was just perfect. He would able to drive. He could drive away from all the madness, leave it all behind. He pretended so hard that he started to believe it, and Kiki believed it, and she was attracted to him, and she just wanted to make him feel better, and she was a little drunk, and they were alone, and he was kissing her. What happened next was something Spencer would never understand, or forget….

**Year 27**

Expelling a gust of hot air, Spencer shook his head as he juggled the meatball pensively, thinking about the night that changed his life.

It had seemed the meatball had finally failed him. He'd asked it what to do, and he had trusted it. And what had it given him?

Mistake, error, fault, blunder, slip-up, blooper—there are so many words for it, but none of them seemed to fit.

It had been all the grown-ups screamed about for weeks, even though by then Deb was too weak to scream as loud as Spencer knew she could. Steve knew that all Spencer wanted to do was hide in his room until it was all over, which was exactly why he wouldn't let him; so Spencer was always right in the middle, sitting with his head hanging as the insults flew.

She was never there—neither was her mom. Her dad was the only one that came around to deal with it, so Spencer had never seen her again.

Kiki Powell.

She was as fun and beautiful as her name. She'd made him laugh when nothing was funny, she'd made him happy to be alive when all he wanted to do was curl up next to his mom and die with her. Kiki was an escape from the pain, an escape that he'd become addicted to. The two of them were young, foolish, not even in love, just curious.

Thirteen and a half years old and skipping school as much as possible, he'd missed health class and so didn't understand exactly how girls got pregnant. All he knew was that pregnant was bad.

Then she'd told him she was pregnant on a pebbly beach and he knew that in reality pregnant was not just bad, it was really, _really_ bad, and scary and embarrassing and shameful.

She ran away crying. Her dad showed up once to scream, then a lot after that to discuss "the child." That's what he called the entire thing. Deb only ever called it, "what's going on." Steve and Granddad referred to it as "Spencer's mistake" but Kiki's dad called it, "the child." Everything he said was "the child" this or "the child" that.

Deb cried a lot. Steve was disappointed. Granddad was furious. Spencer was grounded indefinitely. After a while, the screaming stopped and everyone ignored him. Embarrassed, it was easier to hide in his room and when Steve started letting him, that's what he did.

The grown-ups sat around the dining room table, speaking is leveled tones. Deb was getting her hair back—she had stopped chemo. She was the one that did the most talking. Steve sat and stared into his coffee, nodding. Granddad was silent, staring at ultrasound pictures.

Nine months later, Deb and Steve signed adoption papers and brought home a baby girl, Carly.

She had Kiki's eyes.

**Mistake**: _n_ 1: a wrong judgment: 2: a wrong action or statement

Wrong is in the definition of mistake _twice_; a mistake is twice wrong. At the time, it felt a hundred times wrong, especially when Deb cried about it and Steve wouldn't look him in the eye, but with the passing of fifteen years, none of it felt wrong anymore. If something is not even once wrong, then it can't be a mistake, right?

Spencer's life would be drastically different if he had chosen to sleep that night instead of sneaking out to the lake.

When Deb died, it would have become father and teenaged son learning how to do and say the things that Deb would have done and said for them. Instead, it became father, teenaged son, and grandfather trying to learn how to braid and pick out the right dresses for a one year old.

Granddad wouldn't have sat Spencer down every other day and lectured him about the importance of a career, urging him to go into Law like him, all the while with Steve hinting that he could do no worse than going into the military, like him.

Every single one of these lectures featured a section titled, "One day you will face the full consequences of your mistake." Meaning that one day, he would move out on his own and they expected him to take Carly with him.

It's not that they didn't love her, they doted on her—they just never for a second let Spencer believe that they were going to raise "his mistake" for him while he lived a worry-free life.

He always hated that, them calling her "his mistake," especially when she—Carly—began to walk and talk and be a real person. She was not his mistake; she was no one's mistake. How could something so amazing be a mistake?

What happened fifteen years ago was not a mistake, it was just a turn in a road, a navigational issue. Taking that road led to a lot of crossroads, a lot of big decisions.

The first one came and his parents made the decision to raise Carly as their own. They taught her to call Steve "Daddy," and to call Spencer her big brother. Biological titles were not important, those were the roles they took, so that's what they became. The way they saw it, they were still the Shay family and she was still a part of it. They loved her all the same, and the details didn't matter.

The second crossroad came when Spencer decided he wasn't going to be a lawyer after all and it was time to move out on his own and take Carly with him. Should he tell her everything? He was psyched to take her and raise her, but there was no reason to change anything, no reason why he couldn't stay her favorite big brother in the world as he did it.

Now he watched her jump around laughing and joking on the internet with her friends and he knew deep down inside that this wasn't a mistake. In no way was it wrong.

His thirteenth year was the year his mother died. Was the year he got a girl pregnant… was just a really crazy year.

But it was also the year he saw the world on a whim. Was the year he got Carly as a beautiful baby sister; was the most life he'd ever lived; life he tried to recreate with his sculptures every day.

Spencer shook the meatball one more time, and his suspicion was confirmed.

"_Si_," his thirteenth year, while messy, was arguably the best year of his life.

_The End._

**Gibby: **I thought Spencer was your dad?


End file.
